


Hit Me Baby, One More Time

by Colette_Capricious



Series: Hit Me Baby, One More Time [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dean does not have his priorities in order, Drug Use, First Time, Flash back to pre-series, M/M, Season/Series 08, Shotgunning, damage to rare bootleg tapes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-05
Updated: 2013-07-09
Packaged: 2017-12-17 18:19:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/870547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Colette_Capricious/pseuds/Colette_Capricious
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Dean keeps his eyes on the road, his hands to himself, and remembers. </i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Those Who Don't Remember the Past Are Condemned to Repeat It

Dean and Sam are still laughing as they open the doors and slide into the front seat of the Impala. Dean starts the car with one hand and pulls the wig off his head with the other. He holds it out the window as they drive away and it flutters like a blond flag in the wind. His victory yell startles some stragglers from the Moons army as they pull out of the dirt parking lot.

“Excellent job, man!” yells one of Charlie’s regulars. Dean slows down to high-five him with the wig.

Sam laughs as he pushes a tape into the deck. “Bad Moon Rising” fills the car and the winds tugs at Dean’s sleeve as his left hand drums on the door along to the music. They sing together, enjoying the road, the wind, and the victory. When Dean recognizes the opening notes of “We Gotta Get Out of This Place,” he smacks Sam on the chest with the back of his hand. “Oh man, I didn’t know this one was still hanging around. 

Sam shakes his head. “I can’t believe it still plays. It’s gotta be ten years old.”

Dean rolls his eyes up and to the right as he sings along, searching for the memory. He holds out his hand and Sam slaps the tape box into his palm. The names and artists scrawled on the paper liner in Dean’s cramped handwriting are faded and smeared from years of sun and rain but he doesn’t need to read it to know every song on it. Dean has always measured his life in miles and music, and memories from deep deep inside Dean’s are unspooling along with the tape. “Twelve years, my fine young warrior. We made this twelve years ago.” He interrupts himself to serenade Sam, pointing at him with his most sincere expression. “Girl, there’s a better place for me and yooooou,” he sings. He reaches over and spreads his hand across the back of Sam’s head, shaking it back and forth to the beat of the music. Sam’s head feels different with the hair all slicked back and the ponytail feels sleek and thick where it ripples down the back of Dean’s hand. Sam swats his hand away.

“Don’t you like my singing, Sammy?” Dean fake pouts as he slowly pulls his hand out of Sam’s hair, fingertips dragging just a bit against the soft skin at the nape of Sam’s neck. Sam’s skin twitches and he reaches up to pull the band out of his hair. Dean quickly stops him with a hand to Sam’s arm. He's not sure why he does it, he just wants Sam to keep the ponytail a little longer. At Sam’s questioning gaze in the mirror, he shrugs. “It looks good, nice to see your face for a change.”

Sam tries for bitch face number three, the one that says 'you’re annoying but you’re still my brother', but Dean can tell Sam’s feeling too good for even that. The most he can produce is a derisive snort, but leaves the ponytail in. Dean keeps his arm stretched out across the seat back as “Somebody to Love” starts to play.

“My senior year,” Sam says thoughtfully. “When dad left us. Right before graduation.”

“Yep,” Dean agrees, realizing as he does that he has been flicking Sam’s ponytail back and forth, sliding it between his fingers and yanking at it gently. Dean risks a quick glance at Sam. Sam doesn’t seem to mind. His eyes are half-closed and he slumps in the seat, long legs spread wide, one knee against the door, one just touching the gearshift. The brown leather pants stretch tightly across his strong legs and Dean can swear he sees the soft bulge of his little brother’s cock just starting to push down the inside of his left thigh. Not that he’s looking. Dean yanks his gaze away and concentrates on the road. He doesn’t move his hand away from Sam’s neck though. Feels like he should, maybe, move, but Sam’s not complaining. As a matter of fact he looks damn relaxed. And fuck it, they just met a fairy, stopped the bad guy, and helped Charlie keep her spot as ruler of Moondoor.

“God. Remember that old hippy’s apartment?” Sam slinks a little further down the seat, legs spreading wide, his knee bumping companionably against Dean’s. “I’ll never forget that moldy basement smell.”

Dean moves his hand from Sam’s neck to his knee, because why not? It’s just more comfortable. And if his fingers scratch a little at the seam running down the inside of Sam’s leg, and if his thumb makes little circles on the leather, so what? It feels nice and Dean’s a tactile person. Not a lot of soft, pretty things in Purgatory. Besides, by the way Sam’s head is tipped back, eyes half-closed, it doesn’t look like he has any complaints. So the voices in Dean’s head can just shut the fuck up. Who asked them anyway?

“I’ll never forget his vinyl collection.” Dean says. “It was a thing of beauty.”

“Hmm,” Sam comments, shifting a little in the seat so his back is angled between the door and the seat and his leg pushes even harder into Dean’s. “And all those bootlegged Zeppelin tapes.”

Dean moans. “Oh man, those…the guy had _Gonzaga ’68_. It’s…” Words fail Dean as he remembers the treasure trove tucked into cracked pleather cassette holder. “It was awesome. I can’t believe you remember that.”

Sam snorts, “Dude, I thought you were going to take them to bed and make sweet, sweet love to them. How could I forget? That look on your face,” he laughs. Dean looks over and is temporarily blinded by the full Sam Winchester special. Even through the red and white war paint still faintly visible on his skin, Sam smiles like the sun coming out, all dimples, white teeth, and laugh lines around his eyes. The first time baby Sammy had smiled at him, Dean had felt like his heart was being squeezed, and the surge of possessive love had knocked the breath out of his lungs. Nearly 30 years later, Sam can still make him feel that way. Some of what he was feeling must show in his face, because Sam’s smile gentles, and his eyes soften. That is Sam’s look for Dean only. He’d never seen it directed at anyone else, and hadn't seen in aimed at him in almost two years. His hand tightens convulsively on Sam’s knee.

“Yeah, Sammy.” He looks back at the road, feeling Sam’s eyes still on him. He doesn’t move his hand. Clearing his suddenly dry throat, Dean tilts his head back and forth until his neck cracks and groans appreciatively. 

“You’re so easy,” Sam comments.

“It’s the little things, son.” He plucks at Sam’s pants. “Like these. Where did you get them? Where do they have gigantor-sized leather pants anyway?”

Sam shrugs, still looking at Dean, leg jittering up and down under Dean’s hand. Dean relaxes his grip a bit, letting the leather slide across his palm with the movement of Sam’s leg. Didn’t Sam have something else to look at? Dean checks out the window. Trees, road, nothing they haven’t seen a million times before. But still. “They’re soft,” Sam says.

The trees? Dean thinks for a second. Oh. Pants. “Oh, yeah, they are.” _And warm_ , Dean thinks as he deliberately does not notice the way he is rubbing up and down Sam’s thigh. “You, uh, like them?”

From the corner of his eye, Dean sees Sam’s tongue push out quickly, just brushing against his bottom lip. White teeth press into the lip as Sam runs his fingers through his hair, pulling it away from his face, and huffs out a laugh. “Yeah, I like them.” Sam doesn’t add _not as much as you do_ and Dean doesn’t hear it, but it hangs there just the same.

Aiming for nonchalance and, he suspects, missing it by mile, Dean pulls his hand away from where it rests suspiciously high on Sam’s thigh. Huh. Whaddya know. Dean doesn’t remember moving it. Now that he’s paying attention, he was actually leaning a little into Sam’s space, resting a bit of his weight on Sam’s leg. Oh well, Sam isn’t complaining. About any of it. And he keeps looking at Dean. Dean drums both hands on the wheel as the drum solo from Karn Evil #9 peaked. “Oh yeah! Remember this one?”

“I remember being stoned out of our minds by this point.”

Dean turned slowly to Sam, mouth hanging open, and points at him. “You’re right! We found hippy dude’s stash. I’d forgotten that part.”

“I didn’t.” Sam moves again, knee pressing into Dean’s thigh. _Fuck, Sam was wiggly tonight._ Dean should say something. And he will. Soon. If it happens again. “I remember that night really well,” Sam continues.

The skin on the back of Dean’s neck shivers at the way Sam sounds. He sounds like he was half on his way to stoned right now. As Emerson, Lake, and Palmer urge him to see the show in a rousing crescendo, Dean almost gasps out loud as a memory smashes its way out of the _things-we-don’t-think-about_ (except when we do) box buried in the deepest part of his brain and smacks him across the back of the head. Oh, fuck. _That_ night. Dean is pretty impressed that he manages to keep the car in the lane. He risks a look at Sam. His hooded glance tells Dean that Sam sure does remember that night damn well. Dean struggles to hold back a groan. As the shivering cymbals of Bad Company slither out of the speakers, Dean keeps his eyes on the road, his hands to himself, and remembers. _Christ_.

It had been cold for May. Maybe it was the cement walls in the basement. Maybe it was the constant rain. Or maybe the cold was just an excuse to get under the blanket with Sam. But Dean remembers it being cold. Whatever the reason, they’d ended up pressed against each other, under the itchy wool blanket in sweat pants and t-shirts, propped up against the arm of a ratty futon way too small for two six-foot tall bodies. Seventeen and twenty-one and Sam was pressed between the wall and Dean.

They’d found the stash tucked in one of the endless cracked vinyl cassette cases. A shared looked and they had a game plan for the night. The creation of mixed-tapes could wait until tomorrow. One and a half joints later, Bad Company’s Live in Japan hissed through the speakers, and Sam and Dean were feeling no pain. The background noise of the audience and the rise and fall of cheers, clapping, and music mixed with the rain against the casement windows. Sam was a furnace against his side, and his beer was within reach. Dean could have stayed there forever.

He took a long inhale, held it, and offered the joint to Sam. Sam had slipped down, his head on a level with Dean’s chest. He batted weakly at the joint like his arm weight a hundred pounds. Dean laughed, sympathizing with him, little puffs of smoke escaping with each chuckle. His own legs were feeling a little heavy themselves. “Dean,” Sam whined. “S’not funny.”

“Yeah it is.” 

“Yeah it is,”Sam agreed, bursting into laughter. Dean could feel it shaking Sam’s body where they touched. He laughed as Sam’s head landed heavily on his chest and rolled back and forth as if it was too much for Sam’s neck to control. “But I want more. Gimme.” Not lifting his head off Dean’s chest, he looked up, batting his eyelashes. “Pleeeese?” he smiled. 

Dean took another drag. The smoke burned in his mouth. His chest ached with the need to exhale, or in response to Sam’s smile, or both. Before his better judgment could rise up and spoil the fun, Dean reached his left arm around Sam and tangled his fingers in his little brother’s hair. He held his right hand carefully away from their bodies. Yanking back on the strands that were as soft as he’d known they would be, he tilted Sam’s head back. Sam’s jaw dropped open. “Inhale,” Dean ordered as he leaned down and sealed his mouth to Sam’s. With a shuddering gasp, Sam did, quickly reaching up to wrap his arm around Dean’s neck, holding him in place. Sam rolled onto his side, fitting himself more closely to Dean’s mouth. His left leg slid over Dean, slotting their thighs together with an almost audible click. The invisible audience went wild and cheers filled the tiny space.

Dean wrenched Sam’s head back, as they both gasped for air. Sam’s eyes were all dark pupil ringed with gold. Dean knew his must look the same. “Fuck.” His chest heaved. The pot made him feel slow and heavy, pushing against Sam. Neither one of them let go, pulling back only far enough to breathe, the air under the blanket warn and thick against their skin.

“Dean,” Sam whispered, eyes flicking back and forth between Dean’s eyes and his mouth. Tongue reaching out to wet dry, dry pink lips.

The heat from the smoldering joint reached Dean’s finger. “Fuck,” he said again with a hiss. He shook his arm, starting to throw the roach on the ground. Sam’s hand on his arm stopped him.

Sam slid his hand down Dean’s arm and guided it back up to Dean’s mouth. “Again,” he ordered, staring into Dean’s eyes. 

Carefully Dean put the burning stub to his mouth and pulled the smoke into his lungs. Without looking away from Sam, he reached down and dropped the end into one of the empty beer bottles on the floor. Smoke escaping on a groan, he pushed up and surged over Sam, one hand in his hair, the other pulling Sam’s jaw open. He felt Sam’s legs spread and open, welcoming him into the cradle of his hips, and his tongue chased the smoke into Sam’s mouth.

They kissed slow and easy, the smoke drifting into the air between them. Sam’s body rocked against Dean’s, gently but relentlessly, and Dean could feel him hard against his own length. He was burning up, burned from the friction of his sweatpants against his dick, the scratch of the wool against his back where Sammy had pushed his t-shirt up, and the hot brand of Sam’s hands on his skin.

“God,” he groaned, pulling his mouth away. He’d wanted this for so long. They’d been dancing around it for the last two years. His mouth was a desert even Sam’s tongue couldn’t wet. Dean’s arm groped blindly off the edge of the futon, reaching for the half-finished beer. Levering his chest up to drink ground his hips against Sam’s.

Sam grabbed Dean’s ass with both hands and pulled him even tighter against him, thrusting up. “Shit. Yeah. Dean.”

Falling down onto one elbow, Dean gulped down the beer, swirling the liquid around his mouth, anxious to get back to kissing his brother. He whined as Sam’s hand left off exploring his body. Sam just grabbed the bottle from Dean and finished off the beer, tossing it away somewhere into the room. Dean heard it hit and roll on the linoleum as Sam grabbed his head and pulled him back into Sam’s mouth where he belonged.

God, it was heaven. Sam writhing under him, legs spreading to lock around Dean’s, little gasps escaping his mouth between kisses. Sam thrust hard against him, lifting Dean up a bit with each sharp movement. Damn, the kids was strong. “Jesus fuck,” Dean yelled as one combo move involving a thrust up, a yank down with the arms Sam had locked down across Dean’s ass and back, and some kind of shimmy, almost had him coming in his pants. “Yeah, fuck. Just like that. Just like that,” he panted into Sam’s neck. “You feel so good, Sammy. So hard for me. Just for me. So big.”

“Dean!” Sam yelled. “Jesus, just –“ he thrusts were getting erratic against Dean, his hands slipped under Dean’s shirt and down his pants, skittering for purchase against the sweat-slick skin.

Dean groaned as Sam licked up his throat, his huge hands kneading at Dean’s ass, pushing and pulling him exactly where Sam needed. He bit at the skin on Sam’s shoulder, licked up to nip at Sam’s earlobe. “Yeah, baby boy. Fucking hell, your hands are so big. Love to feel them on me. Love the way you move me.”

Sam inhaled with a stuttering gasp, and Dean felt Sam pulsing against his own aching erection. In the half-second of silence before Sam came yelling a string of blasphemy and profanity that impressed Dean, Dean heard a screeching whiney sound that rang the alarm bells in his mind.

“Oh god. Oh no,” he exclaimed as his brain put an image to the sound. Even as his hips continued to thrust into the warm, wet heat covering Sam, even as Sam gasped and recovered from his orgasm, Dean was starting to roll off the futon. 

Dean rolled onto the floor, taking the blanket with him. Sam opened his eyes as the weight lifted off him and the cold air hit the huge wet mess on his pants. “Dean!” he yelled, voice wrecked and shaky, breath still uneven. “What the fuck?”

Still on his stomach, Dean swatted at the tape deck that was screeching and spilling out thin black tape onto the rollers. “The tape! It’s caught!” He hit the stop button and lurched to his knees, gently opening the door of the cassette player.

Sam threw his arm across his eyes. “Unbelievable,” he huffed.

“It’s Live In Japan! I don’t know to get another copy. Do you?” Dean painstakingly started to unwind the loose tape off the tape heads.

Sam gave a huge exhale. Dean listened to him breathe as he gently and slowly started to rewind the tape with the end of a pencil. Dean’s dick was not onboard with the loss of friction and throbbed its displeasure. Dean swore as he heard Sam start to sit up. “Sam. No, wait, Sammy. It will just be a second.”

Sam’s legs came into view as he slid to the end of the futon and swung his legs off the end. He ran his fingers through his hair, tugged at the soggy crotch of his sweatpants with a grimace. “I’m going to change. Take a shower maybe.” He swayed as he stood. 

Dean reached out with his free hand to steady him. “Sam?” He looked up anxiously at his really really tall little brother.

Sam reached down, hand sliding through Dean’s short hair, hand curving down to caress his cheek. “It’s okay, Dean,” he said. He straightened up. “I’m just gonna –“ he gestured towards the small bathroom and bedroom across the apartment.

By the time he had come back into the room, Dean had gotten the tape rewound, and the moment had passed. After a semi-awkward attempt at talking, Sam had claimed exhaustion and headed off the small bedroom he was using. Dean slid under the wool blanket that still smelled like him and Sam and smoke, and tried to sleep. That was the first time he had jerked off to the memory of the sound and feel of Sam coming underneath him. It was far from the last.


	2. Dust in My Pockets and You in the End.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angels and demons and monsters, and heaven and hell and purgatory, and twelve years later Dean still can’t stop touching Sam for any of a thousand reasons.

Dad had come back a few days later, and the tension and anger between him and Sam returned with him. A few months later, Sam had left for Stanford, and the years since then had been just one shit-storm after another. Angels and demons and monsters, and heaven and hell and purgatory, and twelve years later Dean still can’t stop touching Sam for any of a thousand reasons.

Dean jerks the wheel as Sam twists up onto his knees in the passenger’s seat, all legs, ass in Dean’s face as he reaches into the back seat. Dean looks in the mirror, partly to watch Sam dig through his bag and partly to see the leather stretch across Sam’s thighs and hips. He catches a glimpse of warm skin over hard muscle as Sam’s shirt slide up towards his armpit when he stretches deep into the back seat. He slides his palms over the steering wheel, imagining. Clears his throat. “Dude. What are you doing?”

Sam just shifts his hips, knocking into Dean’s shoulder. “Looking for something. Just drive.”

Dean complies, thinking of the motel room, and Sam, and small spaces. He just takes up so much room. Out of habit, they’ve left nothing but a cooler behind' everything they own in the trunk. He’s on the verge of suggesting dinner and then maybe driving through the night to get back to the bunker. Where they have their own rooms and Dean’s mattress remembers him.

“Ah ha!”Sam twists and plunks down into the seat, waving a small baggie triumphantly. His eyes are bright with things Dean doesn’t want to look at too closely.

Dean reaches over and grabs Sam’s hand, eyes verifying what his nose is already telling him. “Where the hell did that come from?”

Sam swings the bag back and forth slowly. “One of the dark orcs. I showed him how to get out of some holds. He was very grateful.”

“Apparently.” Dean’s gaze keeps flicking back between the road and Sam sitting in the passenger’s seat of the Impala, like a thousand other nights, and looking like all seven sins rolled into one.

Dean rolls to a stop at the light at the intersection. Turn right, and they’re headed back to the bunker and tablets and angels and demons. Left, and they go to the motel where the ghosts of the past wait to ambush the present. Dean sighs and runs his hand across his mouth. He looks over at Sam, hand still pressed against his face.

“So,” Sam asks, holding up the bag, his voice is deep, intense. The red light spills through the dusk and reflects in Sam’s eyes. He holds Dean’s gaze, body turned completely towards Dean, open and offering. “You want to?”

Dean exhales, long and loud in the sudden break in the music. Both of them knew what Sam was asking. Did Dean want to go back to _that_ night? _Did_ he want to? 

It is a lonely life they live. Dean often feels like he is six drops of blood, and a thousand kills to the left of humanity. And it just keeps getting harder and harder to even talk to civilians. Decades spent honing lightning-fast lethal reflexes, Purgatory-induced PTSD, and muscles that retained the memory of forty years of carving up souls, make it almost impossible for Dean to be sure it's safe for civilians to be around him, let alone naked in his bed. 

The line between good and evil, right and wrong, hero and villain, had started its journey towards complete annihilation for Dean the night he’d traded his soul for Sam’s life, and had vanished completely when an angel with delusions of godhood had walked into a lake. As fucked up as the relationship between him and Sam might be (and there had been a time in his life when he could recognize fucked up), he’d realized long ago that there were no lengths he won’t go to, no line he won’t cross for Sam. It is starting to look like Sam is willing and eager to cross this last line with him. 

The light turns green and Dean doesn’t move. This would be different from that night. Not the simple frantic fumbling of two lost boys who had only each other as anchors, not a desperate clutching against the dark and unknown. Sam is offering it all. Dean can’t look away. The light flicks through yellow and back to red. 

And Dean wants to. 

Wants to more than he can ever remember wanting anything. Wants Sam the way he’d wanted him when he’d left for Stanford, they he’d wanted him while the hooks pulled him apart in hell. Sam had been Dean’s the moment John had thrust him into Dean’s four-year-arms. And Dean had been Sam’s since the first time Sam had smiled at him.

He thinks, briefly, that he should be terrified. But he’s not. Sam hasn’t moved, hasn’t spoken. Dean exhales and pulls his hand away from his face. Sam looks calm, but they can read each other like open books, and Sam’s heart is in his eyes. He’s hopeful, nervous, braced for rejection, in love with Dean, and so much braver than Dean will ever be. Dean can’t stop the smile that spreads over his face as he reaches for Sam’s leg again. “Yeah, Sam. Yeah. I want to.” 

Sam smiles like the sun coming up. “Awesome.”

The light turns green again, and Dean turns the Impala left, his hand warm against Sam’s neck.

They pull into the lot, parking under a light outside the door to their room. Dean gets out first and walks around to the passenger’s side while Sam is still gathering their bags from the back seat. He leans against the door, watching. When Sam is fully out of the car, Dean grabs his arm and gently pulls Sam against him. “Hey,” he says, sliding his hand up into Sam’s hair, tilting his head down. “Just to be clear. Ok?” He figures the way Sam pushes him into the side of the car and kisses him like he’s just discovered what his mouth is for means it’s okay. It feels good. It feels right, having Sam so close to him, sharing breath and heat. Dean is not a small guy, but Sam is just so damn big. And he kisses like an attack, one hand holding Dean’s head still, the other on his hip, tugging and positioning Dean like Dean remembers from all those years ago, and Dean is hard in an instant. Dean slides his hands down Sam’s ass and thighs, the feel of soft leather over hard muscles almost making him whimper. Almost.

Dean breaks for air first. Sam must have lungs as big as the rest of him. He gently knocks their foreheads together, slightly irritated that he has to reach up to hold Sam’s head. “C’mon. Let’s get the stuff inside.” They gather up their gear in silence. 

The motel is no different than a thousand others they’ve stayed in before, but it feels so different. Dean steps over the threshold and whatever bravery had inspired his parking-lot kiss dissipates like a rock-salt-shot spirit. 

Sam tosses his gear bag on one of the beds. The beds that seem to loom there with intent. An intent Dean’s body is right on board with but one that makes his brain short-circuit. Sam stands there, all shoulders, height, and hair. Gorgeous and strong and tall. The literal embodiment of home and love and safety. The one person Dean has loved his whole life, and Dean is suddenly as nervous a virgin on prom night and he’s not sure how to stand or what to do with his hands.

Then Sam sighs, runs his hands through his hair, and turns to Dean. “Beer?”

Dean laughs, only a little hysterically, he’s sure. “God, yes.”

Sam pulls two beers out of the cooler and hands them both to Dean to open. A flick of the wrist and the tops pop off. They clink the bottles together. “To victory,” Dean toasts.

“To Charlie,” Sam offers.

That first sip goes down easy, followed by several of its friends. They’re just standing there, angled towards each other as usual, close enough for their arms to touch. Sam puts the bottle to his lips, eyes locked on Dean’s, and Dean is knocked weak-kneed with the need to taste the beer in Sam’s mouth. Sam must see some of it his eyes, and he pulls the bottle slowly away, dragging it down his lower lip. The bottle sticks a bit, pulling the soft lip out a bit before reluctantly releasing it. Sam’s eyes sparkle with a challenge.

_Fucker_. Dean grins. He knows how to play that game. Shit, his mouth has gotten him into and out of more situations than he can even count. He licks his own lips, tongue flicking out quickly and sees Sam track the motion. He feels light inside; reckless with the blinding sense that a part of him he had thought permanently cold and closed off was opening up. Like everything has finally clicked into place. Finishing the last of the beer in two long swallows, he lets the bottle slip to the floor, closes the inches between then and fists his hand in Sam’s shirt, pulls him in for another kiss.

And, oh, god, it’s so good. So good. Any remnants of a memory of a hint of wrong was salted and burned in the fire of Sam’s mouth. 

Sam wrenches and pulls and tugs at Dean’s clothes, stripping Dean out of his fake chainmail, undoing the laces on his shirt and dropping it down to the ground, all without his mouth losing contact with Dean’s skin. Biting and licking and breathing against him, murmuring _so fucking gorgeous_ and _want to taste you all over_ and _Jesus fucking Christ Dean, been wanting my hand on you for fucking forever_ like a waterfall until Dean can’t figure out how Sam be talking and kissing like that all at the same time.

Dean is already off balance from Sam’s mouth and the fucking _mouth _on him, when Sam grabs his ass and lifts Dean off the ground. Sam’s teeth latch onto the base of Dean’s neck as he rolls his hips over and over against Dean. “Fuck,” Dean gasps against Sam’s mouth. “Yeah, Sam.” He winds his arms around Sam’s neck, one hand buried in his hair and bucks back as hard as he can with no leverage. He’s one second away from wrapping a leg around Sam heedless of the probable fall to the ground, when Sam lurches forwards, pushing and shoving them gracelessly towards the bed.__

The back of Dean’s knees hit the bed and he falls back, pulling Sam down on top of him. The bounce back up slams their cocks together and they both groan. Dean spreads his legs with no shame. He has to get Sam as close as he can.

“Dean, Dean,” Sam pants, before slamming his mouth back onto Dean’s, determined to map every atom of it and suck the breath right from Dean’s lungs.

God, he’s going to come in his pants faster than 17 year old Sam did _that_ ; night. He grabs at Sam’s shoulders, trying to get him to slow down. Sam pulls away and slithers down Dean’s body, pushing up his shirt and kissing each inch of skin as it’s exposed. Dean throws his arm across his eyes as he feels Sam’s fingers working at the fastening of his pants. Breathing heavily, Dean slams his forearms into the bed, pushing his hips up as Sam yanks his pants down, stripping them off his so fast Dean’s sure there will be burns tomorrow. All he can feel now though is the pulsing of his cock. It’s so wet and hard, and shudders crawl down Dean’s skin as Sam’s hand wraps around it. He feels every callus on Sam’s hand.

Sam rests his head on Dean’s thigh, hand sliding loosely and slowly up the length of Dean’s cock, his breath hot and moist on the crease of Dean’s leg. “Dean,” Sam whispers, and it’s everything.

Dean lays his hand gently on Sam’s head. “Sam.” Sam looks up, eyes locking together, hazel into green. They stay on Dean’s as Sam lifts up, opens up, and slides down Dean until Dean is pressed against the back of Sam’s throat

Dean’s hands clench into the sheets, his body jackknifing up and over with and overload of pleasure like a punch to his gut. “Sammy!” He falls heavily back to the bed. Sam is up on his knees now, hips higher than his head. His hands press bruises into Dean’s hipbones, hair tickling his skin, and mouth and tongue like warm wet heaven over Dean’s rock hard cock.

Dean thrusts up as much as he can with Sam holding him hard to the bed. The wet sounds and moans coming from Sam driving him as hard as the feel of his mouth, and Dean realizes distantly that he is slamming his head back rhythmically into the pillow as Sam’s name rolls continuously off his tongue, but he doesn’t care. He’s dying, Sam is killing him. Dean’s a repeat visitor to death’s door, and this is his favorite way to go by far. 

Sam rips his mouth off of Dean and sits up on his heels with a shuddering inhale. Before Dean can even process the loss, Sam’s hooks his arm under Dean’s knees and drags him down the bed and up to his mouth. He shifts his hold to Dean’s ass and plunges down, taking Dean to the root.

All the breath is punched out of Dean’s lungs, and he comes with a shout. 

Sam swallows it all, licking and sucking pulse after pulse, until Dean is a shuddering, breathless mess. Sam is quivering and gasping between Dean’s thighs, and Dean feels Sam’s come, hot and wet, dripping down his skin.

Panting, Dean digs deep for all the strength he has left and weakly lifts his arm to gently caress Sam’s hair. At least that’s the theory, it ends up more like a bag of wet cement smacking into Sam’s head and skidding down his face, narrowly avoiding Sam’s eye. “Jesus fucking Christ, Sammy,” he rasps.

He feels Sam’s head nodding against his leg. He’ll look up when he has the strength. Eventually, maybe tomorrow. Maybe the next day. 

“Fuck,” Sam whispers. Dean laughs roughly in agreement.

Sam recovers first. He is younger, after all, Dean rationalizes. Sam looks up and smiles at Dean. His eyes are glassy and his mouth is red, lips swollen. He looks like sex on a stick and Dean can’t look away. With a groan, Sam rises and crawls over Dean to lay heavily on top of him. Dean oofs and manages a weak _dude_ in mock complaint.

Sam just laughs at him and nuzzles against Dean’s neck. “Sleepy,” Sam mumbles. “Feels so goooood,” he draws out against Dean’s skin.

Dean reaches up and holds Sam tight to his body. He can’t remember when he’s ever felt so good. His fingers slip up Sam’s side, reaches up under Sam’s shirt, feeling sweat and soft skin over sleek muscle as his hips roll side to side. His fingers stutter over the scar from Jake’s knife and he gasps, shuddering suddenly with the old memory of Sam’s body stretched out on a dirty bed. That nightmare image has never lost its power over Dean, even when measured against the horrors of Hell. Dean clutches Sam tightly, burying his head in Sam’s shoulder. Sam stills, kissing Dean’s head gently. 

The emotional ups and downs of the last hour is too much for Dean. Too much. He needs something to even it all out, smooth out the highs and lows and stop the pounding of his heart. He slides his hands onto Sam's ass and squeezes. Sam pulls up on his elbows a bit, looking down at his brother. “So,” Dean smiles, “how about we get into that stash?”

Sam rolls onto one elbow, leg sliding across Dean’s body. Dean grabs it and pulls it down against his hips, thrusting lazily and stretching up for a kiss. A quick slide of lips, a promise for later, and Sam slides out of the bed. 

Dean watches appreciatively from the bed as Sam strips off his t-shirt, using it to clean up. His brother’s back is a work of art. Hiking up his pants, but not fastening them, Sam digs through the dufflebag. Dean can see he’s holding the baggie of weed, but he’s still rooting around the duffle. He struggles to a more upright position against the headboard. “C’mon, Sam. Time’s a’wasting.” He feels a little ridiculous post-orgasm, pantless, and sticky, so he pulls his shirt off and throws it on the floor. Wholly naked looks better. He pulls his socks off while he's at it.

Sam dumps the bag out with a huff, dirty laundry, lighter fluid, some canisters of salt, sand and old candy wrappers fluttering to the ground. “There’s no rolling papers.”

“So? There’s gotta be something we can use in this room.” Dean starts casting around the room. Soda can, apple, he’s pretty sure he can rig something together.

Sam turns, hands on his hips, annoyed. Dean’s distracted, marveling at how hot Sam looks even with bitchface, but he does notice that Sam looks a bit forlorn, holding the baggy full of weed in one hand and a small glass pipe in the other

Dean grins. “Awesome. Bring it over.” Dean waves him towards the bed.

The bed dips as Sam slides in next to Dean. Dean spends a second packing the pipe. Sam slaps the lighter into his hand and Dean flicks it on. He holds the flame over the pipe and inhales, holds it, then exhales with a sigh. He nudges Sam's shoulder and tries to hand him the pipe. Sam looks at it and says something Dean doesn’t catch. Dean shoves it at him again.

“I said, I don’t know how to use a pipe.” Sam looks embarrassed, which is ridiculous given he didn't seem embarrassed by his really really superb blowjob skills. And don't think how he acquired _that_ particularly skill-set won't be a conversation for later. 

Dean laughs and shakes his head. “More for me, then,” he says, lighting up again. 

“Jerk,” Sam laughs, knocking his knee into Dean’s.

Dean’s voice is tight with the effort of holding in the smoke. He can feel it curling through his lungs, seeping into his arms and legs. “Didn’t you learn anything at Stanford, college-boy?”

Sam leans in close to Dean, hand sliding up his thigh to cup Dean’s cock lightly. “I learned a few things,” he says with a lick of the lips and a quick glance at Dean’s lap. Dean chokes out the smoke and it’s Sam’s turn to laugh.

 _College._ That makes a lot of sense but still Dean feels, well, miffed. Going to strangers when Dean could have taught him just fine. Dean's brain pauses a bit at that though, replays it, and Dean thinks maybe that dark orc weed is really potent. “Well, A-plus for that. That was a four point oh blowjob for sure.”

"Fuck you." Sam smiles

Dean takes another hit. "Oh later, for sure. That's the final," he cackles. Dean cracks himself up.

Sam wrenches the pipe from him.

"Hey!" Dean protests, grabbing for it. But Sam uses the unfair advantage of his gorilla arms to keep it out of Dean's reach. "You don’t sound surprised,” Sam points out.

Dean shrugs, patting Sam on the head. “It’s okay, Sammy. A lot of kids take a walk on the wild sideduring college. College is a time of experimentation. Of self-discovery.” 

Sam pounces and tackles him on to the bed. Years and miles disappear and it could be one of any of a thousand times they’d ended up wrestling across the scratchy thin carpet of some nameless motel. Except for, you know, the nakedness. They roll around, fighting for the top. Dean may be naked and half-baked and Sam a bit distracted by Dean's skin if the frequency with which his mouth and teeth scrape across Dean's body is any indication, but they are Winchesters and neither one will give up easy. Several minutes later - not counting the pauses when Sam's tongue invaded Dean's mouth, or when Dean's hands went on an exploration that culminated in scratches down the back of a totally naked Sam - they end up with Dean on the bottom, again, and Sam straddling him. Since Dean's hard cock is nestled between the cheeks of Sam's ass and Sam is gently rocking back and forth, Dean declares himself the winner.

Breathing heavily, Sam smirks at Dean. “A time of experimentation? That so?” 

Dean seems to have lost the plot, but he thinks hard. Sam reaches up pinches Dean's nipple. Dean grabs his hips and pulls him down tighter, his groan the only answer he has. But Sam can't let it drop. Now who's got the messed up priorities?

"I seem to recall you having a rather long voyage of self-discovery yourself,” Sam continues, rubbing his palms up and down Dean's skin. His voice trails off at the end and Dean's pretty sure Sam is reevaluating his choice of activities at the moment. _Less talking, more fucking_. Sam wrenches his attention away from where his hands are cataloging Dean's ribs, fingers sliding gently over them one at a time. He struggles to look annoyed as Dean lets go of his hip and slides his hand down Sam's hard, gorgeous cock. "You've been with guys, too" he proclaims triumphantly, proud of forming a complete sentence. 

Dean gestures expansively down his own body. “I am an equal opportunity giver, Sammy. It’s not right to deny half the population all this.” His brain catches up with his mouth and he remembers conversations he'd never had with Sam. “Hey, how did you know that anyway?”

Sam rolls his eyes. And his hips. So Dean forgives him. “I’m not blind, Dean. Or deaf. Or lacking a sense of smell. We shared a lot of motel rooms and there’s only so much cardboard evergreen tree can cover in the Impala.”

Dean’s briefly mortified bu,t given the events of the evening so far, he figures that is water way, way under the bridge. “Well, fine. But I’m still sad that you didn’t feel you could confide in me, Sammy. I’m hurt.” 

“Whatever,” Sam scoffs, standing up. Dean pouts. In a manly way, sliding his hands up Sam's strong thighs and reaching between his legs for the weight and softness nestled there. Sam moans. "Fuck." He reaches down for Dean’s hand. Dean accepts the hand up and lets Sam lead him back to the bed. Dean pulls him in for a deep, long, hard kiss. Sam's lips feel fantastic between his teeth. "God, Dean," Sam pants as Dean's mouth slides down the side of his neck. “You were - fuck - pretty good at cockblocking me." He pressed Dean's head into the spot where neck meets shoulder. "Yeah, shit. Ah right there." He keeps talking and Dean really needs to get some smoke into Sammy right fucking now. "You kept me away from anybody, male or female." He pulls Dean off his neck. Dean's mouth detaches with an audible pop. He twists Dean's head up to look right at him. "I figured you didn’t really want to know.”

The thing is, Dean doesn't really want to know, doesn't't like thinking about some strangers hands on his Sam. Likes it even less now. He kisses Sam roughly and briefly. _Screw you,_ he announces to the ghosts of lovers past. _He's mine now and no one else gets to have him._ He pushes Sam lightly down onto the bed. One hand on his shoulder, one hand cupped around the back of his head, fingers buried in Sam's hair. His little brother. Fucking gorgeous, for sure. Muscle for days. But he’s so much more than that. Brave and loyal and smart and strong. “Not a one of the good enough for you, Sammy. They would never see how amazing you were. Only I could. Only I knew - know. Only I get to have you.” 

Sam is just holding Dean's hand now, rubbing his cheek against Dean's palm. His eyes are suspiciously bright and Dean's throat feels tight. _Right_ thinks Dean, clearing his throat. Less talking, more fucking. This day was going to be the end of him. He smiles down at Sam and gently pulls his hand away. He locates the pipe, the baggie, and the lighter and sits down on the bed next to Sam. Sam tracks Dean's hands with his eyes as he goes through the ritual of filling and lighting the pipe. 

He flicks the lighter and they both watch the flame for a second until Dean tilts it down over the pipe. He breathes in deep. “I could tell,” he chokes out, they didn‘t deserve you.” He loops his arm around Sam’s neck and pulls him in. “ Remember this? Breathe in when I breath out.”

“I remember,” Sam says as he closes his mouth over Dean’s. Dean exhales his heart and Sammy takes it in. It feels like home and safety and love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For some reason this gave me so much trouble. I don't know why. i'd appreciate any feedback. I just felt like I was missing something but i can't put my finger on it.


End file.
